Ultra Numb
by Razer Athane
Summary: A collection of Hwoarang drabbles/oneshots. "There's one thing that you never took away from me."
1. hate

Author's Note: Oh hai thar. This intends to be a little oneshot collection about everybody's favourite redhead, all whilst listening to one song. It will vary in size, content, pairing, character portrayal, writing style, etc; I don't quite know what I intend to focus on, but I will only write this when I'm emotionally charged. My other fics take priority. For now, enjoy.

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**ULTRA NUMB  


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**

_**i. **_

It's like ink being spilt onto paper.

It spreads forward and seeps into all of his veins, poisoning him and turning his mind from white to black. They curl around his blood cells, squeezing them, making them morph from red to black; and it just keeps feeding him and feeding him and feeding him the rage and the anger and the _absolute hate _until he becomes entirely numb within himself. Until he can barely recognise himself anymore.

He can look in a mirror and see his sienna eyes and his red hair and his smooth skin, but he can see underneath it too. He sees the hate. He sees the hate, and it makes him hate more. He hates that he hates, but what he hates most is he hates the feeling, even as he makes it grow. He hates feeling so paralysed and consumed by his hate that he feels so _numb – _and he hates that he fights so hard to maintain it.

He's dominated by all he's hated, and he lets it eat him from the inside out. He hates the feelings, but by God does it make him stronger. He hates that he grinds his teeth to keep from snapping at anyone and anything, but by God does it teach him the art of patience. He hates feeling like he's frozen all over and numb and just _not there _anymore, like a ghost going through a crowded street_, _but by God does it make him tougher.

The water that's crawling down his muscled arms and his cheeks and his slender fingers makes him itch, and it makes the hate tingle just that little bit more and push him that little bit harder to try and exercise his patience. Its just rain. Simple, simple rain – rain he hates because he doesn't like feeling bogged down by the watery weight, and the sound of it falling remind him of bullets pouring through isolated streets and war-torn hills and every battleground. But he still has it around him anyway, because the Korean uses it like a cloak to hide his true intentions, and –

_Three._

The water's suddenly cold and faster, and they're stabbing like thousands of freezing knives – at least, that's what they feel like. He can't tell because his eyes are closed, but the feeling's boosting the hate. Every drop continues to solidify it. They're making it hurt and burn and grow, all at the same time. But he doesn't mind. He lets it happen, because he intends to use it as a weapon – a powerful and angry weapon. He can attack with his feet and his fists, but this feeling, this horrible feeling is the fuel to his fighting. And if he keeps letting all of this possess him, he wonders if he'll be any better than the son of the devil.

One parasite for another.

One bruise for another.

_Two._

His breathing's becoming ragged now, and he wonders how long it'll take until his mind focuses _only _on the numbing hate, even though the time's ticking down. He _only _wants it to focus on that so he can better himself in what he does. So he gets that little extra drive to be the best he can be and to fucking slaughter anybody who stands in his fucking way; because dammit, that's how he fucking rolls. That's how he gets his shit done, either in the streets or here, in the blinding, chaotic limelight, all alone.

There's a deep inhalation, and the air is cold. It flows through his body like the hate he's nurtured.

He opens his eyes.

_One._

The lights shine onto the outdoor arena, and Hwoarang's eyes lock with Jin's as he's entirely numbed over.


	2. words

Author's Note: Finished this about a month ago, but forgot to post it. Lawl.

_**ii.**_

He's curled into a ball, lying on the middle of the floor.

He's that way because he's realised several things about himself in the span of a few minutes, and it sort of feels like its becoming too much to bear, particularly as he's been in a bad mental place for the last month or two. Baek's died, after all, and shit like that takes a lot longer to heal than people initially think – but the things that those other people spat at him during the funeral, both tournament participants or just random people on the streets, hurts.

Their words were snide and their words were cruel, but most of all, they didn't bother to say it to his face, when it might've made a difference.

Underneath his attitude, he does listen. If he's spoken to directly by a friend, and it's something that needs fixing, then he'll listen and see what he can do. If it's said behind his _back, _though, then it hurts. Hwoarang's not an alien – he's human. Hwoarang's not invincible – he's destructible. Hwoarang's not strong – he's _weak. _That's why he puts so much pride in his fighting, that's why his hair is red, that's why his bark and bite are on par with one another – it's all a bunch of walls designed to keep his weak self hidden and as protected as he possibly can.

And the weak crumble under the words of the wise and the words of the foolish.

The first one that got under his skin is that he was _childish _in the middle of a war.

He sees why it seems that way and he entirely agrees that that particular quality should be left out of something as adult and life-sucking as a war. Maybe it's that little extra _childishness _that makes it a little extra _drive _to kill Kazama for everybody's sake, or at least knock him off of his high horse. Maybe its that little extra _childishness _towards that issue from _years ago _that fuels him and makes him more determined, because he remembers how that feels, and even years later, it still leaves a bad, bitter taste in his mouth.

It was a random girl about his age who'd said that whilst he passed a crowd of faceless nobodies. It'd been on his way to Baek's funeral, and those words just floated around in his mind for many minutes that passed. He easily came up with an inward counter, one that he hissed and spat at her repeatedly in as many languages as he knew – but again, that was inside. Outside, he just ignored her, because she wasn't worth fighting.

The second one is that he is _ignorant _to those around him who cared.

Not really. Hwoarang's a very private person, and he prefers to keep himself that way. If he was pissed off, then those who well and truly knew him would let him blow off some steam – usually by kicking someone's ass, or the punching bag's ass – before even thinking about asking if he was okay. But that's only some people. Not everybody knows or understands that, because not everybody is willing to take the chance and get close, or he doesn't allow them to approach, for whatever reason.

It was an old man, an acquaintance of Baek, who had murmured it in jittery Korean as he entered the church. The girl's words from earlier were already stuck in his mind, and this was just like an extra piece of glue or honey that joined them together. He'd stopped walking and looked at the man with an unreadable expression, and he wondered for several moments if _Baek _felt that way about him; but surely Baek understood that he was the best friend and Father figure he ever had…

…Right?

The final one was that he is _selfish _and would never change.

He's selfish because that's how he's _had _to cultivate himself – the streets eat the selfless. What's your life compared to that other person's over there? The one who tried to knife him last night for his jacket? Or the one over there that you didn't even know? Their lives meant _nothing _compared to his own, and Hwoarang knew that – and to survive, he had to become selfish. Maybe he hadn't fallen out of that old street mind yet. He doesn't mean it to come through like that all the time. Honestly.

It was said to his face by a teenage girl who'd been standing outside of the church as he and the guests exited. They were all crying, but he was holding himself together, because he knew that if he cracked here, the emotions would flow through like a torrent, and he wouldn't be able to stop. So he merely sucked in his breath and walked out until he got to the apartment, where he could split open in peace.

And that's when he grabbed his guitar and played until his fingers bled. That's when he stopped because he can't let out his pain through the wailing instrument anymore, and starts throwing things around the room for lack of a better release. That's when he beats the floor with his fist, because he misses Baek so much because he's the Father he doesn't remember – and because those people showed him _himself._

They were unwanted mirrors, but they forced him to see clearly for the first time.

Every shard metaphorically stabs him until he can't move or breathe, and he's just lying there curled up, staring into space. He sees himself and he doesn't like it – but he can see his other self too, revolving on those points, and wonders what's wrong. The mirrors are right and wrong and everything in between – black and white and every single shade of grey – and Hwoarang's just completely lost.

And he doesn't know what to do from here on in.


	3. breakdown

_**iii.**_

I wish I was a poet, but knew it and could summon it in about five seconds.

Every time I try to think of something decent to either say or write down in the form of a song or something, it'd look like a bunch of jumbled words stuck together with piss poor glue, falling apart at the vowels and then just crumbling into absolutely nothing. Letters that were forced to try and have some type of meaning, but lacked it in the end.

Sorta feels like a story I can identify with, to a point. A kid who tried to stand for something and have concrete morals, but lacked such direction that anything to stand for didn't deserve him, or he didn't understand the morals he was attempting to enforce. Loser letters, bastard boy, valueless vowels, idiot individual, and a world not willing to house any of 'em. They're all stuck in a villainous vacuum, dying to get out, but fucking held down with a bunch of unbreakable ropes and chains – too tightly bound to try and slide out, but there's this fear of 'if I manage to get out, am I just gonna float somewhere and never come back?'.

Fear of the unknown.

But Sa Bum Nim once told me that to fear the unknown is stupid. Well okay, he didn't say it like that, but that was essentially the core point. He then promptly told me to get back to kicking the bag, because kicking the bag's the best way for me to settle down. Vents the anger, drains the uncertainty, and solidifies something I'm actually fucking good at. But what if that one thing I'm good at suddenly vanishes on me, and I've got nothing left after that?

My leg's broken. Sa Bum Nim was furious, but I ignored him anyway. Got into a fight with one of the rival gang leaders, he crushed my shin under his steel boot. I still won that fight, but, at a cost. Now I can't kick. Now I can't release any of this pent up tension and it's just wearing me down from the inside. It's making me feel like I'm trapped and helpless and all of this other incessant bullshit; and when cornered, the beast will always bite, and the wolf will always win.

Its funny how _one little injury _can bring down the proudest of men. How without that… _knowledge, _that fact of knowing that… shit, my English is being retarded. I guess what I mean is, before I broke my damn leg, _I knew _that whatever problems I had would be kicked out eventually. But now without that means… am I damned to let it grow in me? Tried writing, it's not getting me anywhere – that's why I was on about poets earlier and whatever – but I just feel so goddamn _stuck._

Stuck's a funny word, you English people make the weirdest mouthed sounds sometimes.

But, stuck stuck stuck, in this damn little rut, with nowhere to go and nowhere to run.

I guess I can pull it out, sometimes… Sounds so childish though but, its damn true. Without fighting, I'm that dinosaur sinking in tar, demanding freedom but held down, and demanding air so I can just slow my mind down, collect myself and just fucking _think. _I just feel like I can't breathe anymore. Feel like I'm stuck in the same place in time, repeating the same days, saying the same things, eating the same meals, and getting nowhere in my goddamn life. I want this, but I don't want to work for it – I just want it to appear, or for the easiest way to manifest in front of my damn eyes and go 'what's up dude, let's take this way out of your lunatic labyrinth'.

Peeking over the walls of my forted heart, gazing into the lunatic labyrinth with a deathly fear of the unknown.

Behind my mask, this is who I am. And I hate it. And nobody knows.

The streets have taught me much in terms of masking, but I have learnt nothing in terms of help, and that's way more important. Learning how to help yourself first and then others is way more important than fucking hiding behind the goddamn mask, waiting for your problems to whisk themselves away into a different world. Or waiting for the lunatic labyrinth to melt to the ground, the icy prison gone, and just go back to whatever it is you – I – we – they – thought was what was right, or wanted deep inside.

I want to lie down and give up.

When I get off of my cast, I'm gonna be a shit fighter again – but Sa Bum Nim's going to tell me otherwise, because of my 'talent'. Can't launch my damn kick, the roundhouse will be very unsteady, and as good as I am, I dunno if my heart's in it anymore. Too tightly locked up in fear of the unknown to even help itself, or to be able to beat correctly so the rest of the body can breathe and think and _fucking DO SOMETHING _instead of wasting my goddamn life wondering where this road will go, or if this one over to the right's gonna take me down the wrong way.

Trapped in my own asylum.

They say a breakdown's one of the most painful experiences someone can imagine. That it can't be stopped, and that the sufferer knows that it's _always _coming. That the witness honestly can't do anything to help them out, because they just gotta go through it. When you're going through hell, you keep going, because you don't want to fucking stop and you don't want to look over your shoulder and shit yourself at what's chasing you. Your murkiest memories. Your worst fears. Your ignored desires, deep in your soul. Trapped in your own asylum, self-destructing and tearing at yourself from your core to exterior, until there's nothing left and you're struggling to bring the shattered shards of yourself together again.

So, Sa Bum Nim… am I breaking down now…?


	4. death

_**iv.**_

Ever seen a life get taken before your eyes?

I've seen it happen plenty of times.

It never loses that freaky effect, a ghosting over your skin as that person leaves for a better or worse life. There's like this moment where you feel like they might choke you, because they envy the fact that you can still breathe, that you can still feel, and that you're still warm and living. Sometimes you swear you can feel their hands approach, because if they can't live, then by all means, you shouldn't either.

Admittedly, I've taken heaps of lives, to defend myself or another. You pull a gun on me, I will knife the shit out of your chest until your heart can no longer function. You drag your own knife down my friend's chest and stomach, I will kick you in the side of the head until I hear a delicious snap and until you stop moving. Until I can _see _that regret floating out of your cold, seemingly lidless eyes.

Despite all that, there's like a little tingling rush through my veins whenever I deliver the final blow. Like a moment of _I survived, you were too weak, I am too powerful, _because there could've been a moment where _I _was the one on the ground with no life lingering. Those breaths that come after… they're really valuable.

But the breaths that leave you… are timed.

You're on the ground, bleeding. There's shallow exhales, but otherwise there's utter stillness. The beast across from our bodies does not move, an arm does not fall – the scarabs no longer dance in aimless strings and formations. Even the flickering flames feel far away, soundless in their sways. It's almost like my feet are stuck to the ground with some type of super glue, because I'm itching to approach you, but no muscle in my body other than my heart and lungs are functioning efficiently.

You. There. Dying. Because I was too fuckin' slow to strike the beast back.

There's a vague smile on your face as your head starts to turn to one side, and in the back of my head I'm fighting off the reality before me, because this is a death I don't want to see, let alone for it to happen. I can't, I just can't…

So I address you, "Sa Bum Nim?"

Nothing leaves except for a soft sound and some rustling – your head hitting the ground, your body's relaxed within the confinements of your dobok, and there's that ghostly feeling again, sweeping up my arms and my body until the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Salt dances around the rims of my eyes, and the back of my head's shouting for you to get back in your damn body, or to have some tea, or to smack me up the back of the head; _anything _but this acceptance, this one, simple, undeniable acceptance…

There's no… hands, though. Nothing around my throat. No suffocating feeling, none of that shit.

Somehow the ground's a lot closer to me, and its cold below my knees. Spit's mingled with tears when I address you again with a shout. My hands are on the ground now too, and they're pressing so hard into it that I'm sure there'll be imprints there when I dare to raise my body again.

Didn't want to lose you…

I'm… sorry… for my weakness.

I'm so sorry for my weakness.


	5. lies

_**v. **_

"_Liar, liar, pants on fire! __Geojismaljaeng-i! Geojismaljaeng-i!"_

_My lies don't cut you._

I'm running back to my commander, words dancing on the tip of my tongue. He's gotta know they're coming – he's gotta know that aid's coming, and that he should hold back. We're fucked if he attacks now, because they outnumber us – but if we wait, we'll win.

"_Yeah, I lied. So what? I meant it."_

"_That doesn't even make any sense!" the kid shouted back, throwing his basketball to the ground in fury. He grit his teeth tightly._

_My fists trembled – it took a lot not to throw it out, "Your _face _doesn't make any sense!"_

Little lying, lonely boy, throwing out words to reinforce his crumbling wall. What is your real defence, and why do you fight to hide? My lies don't cut you. My lies bleed white and murmur in the dull reality.

There's a gunshot to my right. Swallowing, I keep running past the sentries, past the scouts, past the men who only stay to drown themselves in bodies and bones.

"Come and face me like a man!" one roars from metres behind me – there's no time to defend my pride. There's lives at risk, and I can't have them haunting my conscious and spoon-feeding me guilt.

Camp's up ahead – the last stronghold against these demons and their kin – and they're already lining up to defend what remains. Behind me, I can hear the two armies shouting with glee. Korea's army's not gonna hold – Lars and his men will be here soon, we just gotta wait!

"Commander!" my voice is hoarse as the gap's crossed, "Fall back, they're too strong!"

"_I don't agree with your new format for training us, Sa Bum Nim," I growled, crossing my arms until my nails buried themselves into the sleeves of my dobok, "I Get it and understand why you've changed it, but it didn't need it."_

_Baek stroked his chin with one hand and fiddled with the end of his belt with the other, "And why do you say that?"_

"_I just…" pause for a heartbeat, "I just think it was fine the way it was. Change is nice and yeah it's constant, but in this case, it's unnecessary."_

_He took a few steps forward and also folded his arms, "Then you must learn to adapt. If you do not wish to accept it, then by all means – leave."_

The race to the finish ends with me tripping in the ditch I was blind to. Hurriedly standing before him, I address my commander again, ignoring the tickling stings that I can feel, "Commander, don't attack." His face is like stone, so I speak again, "There's reinforcements! You just gotta lay low! The Rebel Army will be her soon, I promise!"

_A man stared back at me in the mirror, and I couldn't recognise him. Where did I go? Where's the fire that defined me?_

_My hand reached up to stroke the white cheek on the smooth surface. It was cold and dead. This is a reflection of my insides – they're twisted and wrong, but still real and sincere._

_My lies don't cut you –_

"And why should I believe you?" the commander growls, casting me aside as though I'm nothing. He assumes his unwavering position again and stares off into the horizon, as though he's waiting for a long lost lover to come home again.

_- my lies cut me._

He laughs when I repeat my previous statement, and then he goes on, "Why should I trust you, Hwoarang? You have lied all your life – you cheated people out of their money with your words, you lie and lie and lie because you want to get what _you _want! He immediately silences me before I can defend myself, "You have lied so much that when you tell the truth, _nobody _believes it – you have destroyed yourself."

I stand and rasp, "Even if you never trust me again, fine – but please, just this once –" the opponents are coming closer, "—_trust me!_"

"There _is _no rebel army," he hums flatly.

"_Get away from me!" the woman sobbed, holding her clothes closer to her body. She pointed at me, her voice choking with every syllable, "Y-your _buddies _did this! You are just like them!"_

_I shake my head, and my mouth was still dry, "I'm being sincere here… Please let me help you get to a hospital!" I grabbed my hair, watching blood slide down pure white, "Trust me!"_

"You do not _deserve _trust!" the commander bellows, "Now get in line and fight for your country!"

The line creeps forward – my pride shrivels up and dies as I run past them all and head for the hills, waiting for the Rebel Army. My commander won't listen – Korea will fall to some twisted cause to two factions – I can't do _anything –_

Why is my sincerity never believed? Surely humans can tell the difference between the lies of my youth and the pleas of a grown man – I'm just trying to help!

_And from my position before him, I laughed –_

_And from my position before Baek, I bow and try –_

_And from my position before the mirror, I crumble –_

_And from my position before the woman, I reach and shrink away –_

And from my position atop the hill, I feel their ghosts invade my sombre self, stuffing spoonfuls of guilt into my mouth and telling me, shouting at me the same words I've heard too many fucking times –

"_Liar, liar, pants on fire! __Geojismaljaeng-i! Geojismaljaeng-i!"_


	6. alone

_**vi.**_

Wolves aren't supposed to live alone. They live in packs, and they look after each other under a leader – a strong leader who knows exactly what the fuck to do and where the fuck to go. I guess somewhere inside, the wolf in me missed the goddamn memo while he was fucking some lady-wolf, or he just didn't give a shit and continued to tear into the carcass – prize – holy fuckin' grail – that lay motionless before his sienna eyes.

A howl bubbles from my throat as I press my hand against my forearm. I've been shot, and the bullet burns my flesh and my muscles and it feels like I've been winded. This beast – savage dog – I don't know what a fitting name is for that _human – _laughs and laughs and laughs; and then he leaves with my wallet. It's almost like he doesn't exist – a phantom of my mind, only put here to haunt me and frighten me, and make me realise that I've no pack to lead or be led by.

Blood's slowly sinking down my arm, and my teeth push together. This is bullshit.

So I do what I always do in these situations – stand up, exhale, and numb myself over. Works pretty well, usually, but there's this one message that keeps relaying in the back of my head, and it won't go away no matter how much I will it, because its an annoying little shit that's looking for a kick to the fucking face.

**LONELY. LITTLE. BOY.**

I'm to become numb, ultra numb, even, because that's the only way I can escape that sensation in my arm and the one that claws its way around the back of my skull, itching to infest itself deeper into my brain until it tastes me, swallows me, captivates me, controls me and _becomes me and then I can't see straight anymore and there's just too much and I can't breathe someone help me there's no air in here I gotta live I need to –_

The feeling's weakened me more than the bullet, and I choke, trying to find that air that I'm lacking. I'm stumbling out of the alleyway where this sick fuck dragged me to for my cash – which he didn't get, mind you, because I have _nothing _in my wallet – the lights are blinding and _it's getting tighter, the chain around my throat's crushing my windpipe and my God I need to taste the air –_

And then there's that message again, screaming and prying through my mind, trying to find a gap, crevasse, opening, gateway, entry point to unravel me like an old tapestry, because I sure as hell don't seem to fuckin' understand myself when I'm whole –

**LONELY. LITTLE. BOY.**

A particular light blinds me more so, and I bare my teeth in frustration, growling, shielding myself from the source, and then _there's noises, acute noises, so many things that I can hear and I don't want to hear them because I am not a lonely little boy without a family to love or a friend to smile with and I do have a pack somewhere in the wilderness; they're not howling for me –_

They're not calling for me –

"Hwoarang –"

There's no voices there, no voices at all, I'm hearing things; they are traitors, _they abandoned me._

_Fuck you all, I don't need any of you to guide me – _where are you?

**LONELY. LITTLE. BOY.**

No. Friends – _no. Pack _– no. Backup – _no. Help – _falling. Down – _weak. Helpless._

Alone. Blurry. _I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe –_

The lights shift from my eyes, and I charge back down the main road, heading home, because home's where I gotta fuckin' be. I gotta get back to my _den – _hideout and stay there, and re-evaluate my life because dammit, this gang shit's getting me nowhere. I _howl for them – _call for my friends, and they still don't come because _you are weak and you don't deserve assistance, you are old and you will die – _they're selfish assholes who want to take the top job of the _alpha male – _leader – _success is in survival – _for themselves.

And then there's no ground, no voice, no slow snow in the Seoul night – _I can't see I can't see blind blind blind –_

I'm falling. Falling into nothingness. Falling into silence.

"_Hwoarang_ –"

Please, just leave me alone. _I am alone. I have no pack, no mate, I am the alpha of myself and my own goddamn fucking destiny and _I don't have to keep doing this, because there'll be another way, just you wait Hwoarang, you're gonna get out of this just fi _–_

I wake.

You're above me. Your hand's on the side of my face, smoothing my hair away from my face. The light sweat that's formed is quickly dabbed away with a small handtowel, and you smile at me, telling me to hush now because everything's alright, it's over and you're safe here _with me, and you are not alone. You. Are not. Alone._

**LONELY. LITTLE. BOY.**

"You had another nightmare," you say, tucking some of your hair behind your ear and leaving my side. But I want you to come back, yet I'm still voiceless, "But it's over now, so there's no need to worry. Do you want me to get you a drink of water? Or coffee? I know you like coffee, even if I fuck it up by putting in a bit too much sugar… I'll try not to this time, yeah?"

Nightmares come alive at night, and I swear that it was all true.

Your voice is soft, timid, _frightened even because you are alone in this world, just like me; and that's why we are together, _"Hwoarang?"

I sit up, shaking, and just stare. You come and sit beside me, wrapping your arms around one of my own, unsure of what else to say – but you don't need to say anything now. You're here and I'll know it'll be alright. You never left. You stayed, and you always will, and I'm always gonna return the same favour.

The voice in the back of my mind – it dies, it can't rip open my core – but then it starts again, a new tune, when I move to touch your arm, but shrink away. You hate these nightmares, and I don't blame you – I hate your nightmares just as much, because I – you – we – can't do anything for the other person, because _we are alone, ensnared in the ever-shifting sands of time; solitude is seductive _but it tastes so bitter.

**FROZEN. HEART.**

My eyes close, and I breathe, subduing the animal.


	7. friendship

**_vii._**

"Quit that shit," Hwoarang hisses, grabbing the man by the shoulder and pulling him down and off his perfectly balanced chair. A small smirk appears, and, pleased with his accomplishment, he adds, "Seriously, you sound like one of those fuckin' American blonde teenage girls."

Still lying on the floor, Steve grins, partially amused and partially annoyed, "Sod off, at least I make blowing bubblegum look classy."

The grin widens for a few moments before fading. He shifts in his seat and resumes copying down the notes that he missed in his lecture. They're sitting in the sun outside of a lecture building. It's a warm day and their skin's slowly heating up beneath the rays, just as the exams continue to loom closer, worrying the pair – though neither would admit it.

Of course, Hwoarang's been acting a little strange lately and Steve doesn't know why. This commerce course definitely taxes him too, but he's surprised to see that someone so strong's crumbling so quickly. Hwoarang's not one to usually voice his problems, even to his best friend, but whatever's disturbing him's really getting on his nerves.

So he picks himself back off the floor, dusts himself off and sits back on his chair, asking, "So what's up with you lately, mate? You seem more far off than usual."

Hwoarang chooses to ignore him, continuing with his speed writing – until he's forcibly nudged, making his pen go far off course. Grumbling, he answers, staring into the page, "Is it that obvious?"

He inwardly winces as Steve nods, "To me, definitely. Baek's not been too pushy, has he?"

"Well," the Korean begins, resuming his note-taking in an effort to distract himself, "I know he wants me to do this course. I'm taking it to try and please him but I keep fucking up and my heart's just not into this bullshit. The only _counting _that I wanna do is how many times my brush goes across the canvas.

"Oh, and believe it or not, I'm really getting sick of my friends here – not you, I'm cool with you, but fuckin' Kazama and Forrest are such downers. 'This group project's not going to work out! I'm sick of doing nothing'!" his shoulders raise and his voice escalates, "Then shut the fuck up and get off your ass!"

Sienna eyes blink for several moments. It all just came out in such a rush – he didn't mean for all of that to come out so scathingly. Well, whatever. That's how he felt, and there's no turning back now. He slams his book closed and leans back in his chair, observing the clear blue sky with relative disinterest.

"I get what you mean."

He releases a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding.

Steve pulls the gum out of his mouth and sticks it under the table, continuing, "It gets on my nerves too, but I look at it this way… This is our second year and the classes change all the time. There's a good chance that I'll not see 'em again. Commerce is a big course."

"A big boring course, yeah."

The Brit nods, leaning forward on the table and on his elbows, "It is bloody boring, but this is something I need to do until my boxing career gets off the ground. As for _you, _though, I'm sure your old man will love you and be happy with you no matter what course you take. This place isn't for you – pull out and throw yourself into an art school."

Hwoarang strokes his chin and squeezes his eyes shut, "I wanna leave, but I don't wanna leave you by yourself with those two fuckheads. We've been friends since elementary school, and I don't wanna throw that away. I'm being selfish."

He laughs, "Selfish? No, you're being true to yourself. You're a painter, your nose doesn't belong in a businessman's world. Chase your damn dreams, you git – I'm still gonna be around."

Hwoarang pauses, steadily absorbing the words thrown his way. Really, he chose this course because this is the path that he realistically – and unhappily – visualised himself in. He sees himself being buried in business whilst remembering fond dreams of being the next big artist – the next Andy Warhol, the next Sarah Sze, even. Painting or not, he had to be involved in art – but he doesn't think that he'll be any good.

Confidence, the hidden chink in his armour. The illusionist, the deceiver – it comes and goes, but the weakness in the link remains behind, tainting him.

"Nothing says that you're going to screw yourself up by giving it a go. Try and see, I bet you'll be surprised at your own ability," Steve smiles and harvests his book, moving it into his bag, "You can always find something else if it doesn't work out; the time's not wasted."

Hwoarang opens his eyes and looks to him, returning the smile with one of his own, "Y'know something? I'm glad I have a friend like you."

"Go get 'em."


	8. desperation

_**viii.**_

It's dark and cold and I can taste my own blood in my mouth, feel it splattered all over my face… It feels like it's caked over my eyes and keeping them shut. There's a fleeting though in the back of my mind, asking if I'm asleep… But the pain that's shooting up and down my body definitely reminds me that I'm awake. I am _so __awake._

There's no voice left in me to cry for attention – help – _nothing._

Wanna move… But I can't… So chained down, held down, so weak… Can't remember what happened. My mind's like a scrapbook, I always used to say – but right now, yeaaah there's a few blank pages, mainly on what the fuck's happened to me. There's grains of asphalt pushing into my skin, and my throat's clogged. Wanna get it out… Wanna cough it up… _My __ribs __fucking__ hurt._

There's shadows moving – I can only see the shadows, only just through the cracks of my eyes and beyond my eyelashes. One's just disappeared into the sky going to God knows, but _I__know_that's what did this to me. That… thing… _can__'__t__… _be Kazama. It just can't. There's no fuckin' way that he's _that_ sick and twisted inside.

But clearly… he is.

My senses…

I can't open my eyes very well – aside from the occasional wisp of light fighting the darkness, sight has forsaken me. Smell and taste have joined forces – all they can tell me is that there's blood, blood fucking everywhere. I know that I'm on a goddamn road, but it sounds like I'm underwater – that weird, ambient sound, y'know? It's just so distorted and I can't tell if anybody's saying anything – if anybody's around – or if there's any other cars coming. Can't hear what remains of my bike, and I don't even know if it's still burning. Touch has vanished – I can't feel a damn thing.

Sound's changed. It's not clear, but a bit more distinguishable and a bit more cooperative. I hear whines. Lots and lots of whines, and they're digging into my ears like some annoying parasite. At first I'm thinkin' it's the ambulance… But it's not the same sound. That sound's like a screech – this is more like a faint whisper. Maybe it's a person? But I realise, then I remember that this place was deserted as fuck before all of the fighting began.

It's me, trying to breathe.

It's me, trying to live.

There's light. Light and darkness, but it's clear.

It's sorta ironic. Light and darkness. Life and death. It's just so clear… Pick one, Hwoarang.

Well, I know what else is clear – I wanna live. I need to fuck up that Devil's shit. Make him pay and make him realise that he should _not_ fucking tamper or mess with me. Make him realise that I'm the better fighter and that I don't _need_ help to win. I won that stupid fight fair and square, and pulling that shit out of the bag's just…

Coughing fit. Fuck.

It's like little needles all over my body, digging into each and every part that Kazama's kicked, punched, clawed at, even _bitten_at one stage. I feel the blood drag down again in fresh pushes, and it's enough to make my stomach turn – but I hold it in. I don't _need _to show anymore weakness than I already am, and this weakness I can't exactly _help _right now.

I am not. _Weak. _Dammit. I can bounce back from this. _I__ AM __awake._

And then my arm drags itself over the ground, out as far as it can. My fingers are clawing at the ground – I'm trying to pull myself forward. If I'm gonna get out of this, I'm gonna use up all of my damn energy doing it, even if it doesn't end up getting me anywhere.

My weight seemingly collapses onto the elbow that's propped up. I'm shaking everywhere as I reach out with my other arm and pull again. My legs are dead weights – one's definitely broken because with every bump, I can feel this stupid, throbbing pain come from there. The other one's trembling. But that's fine. Don't need legs to get myself out of this – this isn't a fight. This isn't a fight… This _isn__'__t._ A goddamn _fight._

No, not even for my life. This isn't a fight.

There's still light and dark, but I see a little more light now. Light of life, light of the city, maybe even light of the cars wayyy up ahead… And that lamppost too. Maybe I should get myself there, so people can see me and take me to the hospital. That's the only way I'm gonna get through this and kick Kazama's ass for nearly killing me. The deranged little shit looked like he wanted to rip my spirit from my body, at one point.

Even if I have to fight that thing again… I'll do it, just to prove that I'm better. I can do this.

There's power – there's suddenly power – I'm yelling.

I'm still crawling, but there's a little more strength in my arms. I'm still shaking, but I don't fucking care. That lamppost, I'm gonna go lie right under it and watch the cars go by and see if anyone stops. See if anyone cares. At least that way, my life's not in my hands anymore, and if I gotta die, I know I would've done as much as I'm able.

Close. So close. Gotta move.

I want to walk, I want to run… But I'll fall.

My senses…

Even though it's not normal vision, I'll take it – sight's back in my corner. Smell and taste… they still don't like me, because there's no air, just blood. The coughing earlier's kinda helped it though so I guess I can't complain too much. Sound… I can only hear myself still. Only my breathing. That, and ambience. Just those. Touch… It doesn't know what it wants to do just yet.

_You__'__re__ not __weak, __Hwoarang,__ okay?__ It__'__s __gonna __take __more __than __a__ beating __to __your__ pride __to __stop __you __from __doing __what _you know _you__'__re__ here __to __do. __So __just __move. __Just __keep __pushing __forward.__ You__'__re __nearly __there, __you __can __do __it. __If __you __can __sit __through__ Baek__'__s __boring __lectures __then __you __can __get __through __a __life-threatening __situation __just __fine __without __the __need __for __violence__ – __because,__ well, __there__'__s __no __need __for __violence __here __and __shit__… _

What am I fucking saying now?

A laugh – I'm losing my mind, or consciousness, or something. Something's slipping away.

An arm's bathed in the light of the lamppost, and one long, furious ring of a fucking _bell_ starts tearing through my skull.

_I__ am_ so awake_,__ and __I__'__m __still __fuckin__' __here, __so__ don__'__t __think __that __I__'__ve __left, __alright? __I__'__m __here, __I__'__m __here__…_

- I'm slipping –

"Hey, are you alright? The hell happened!"

A hand, a reach –

_FALLEN._

"Hey, come on, answer me! I – hello? I need an ambulance!"

…_DON__'__T __ABANDON __ME__… __HERE__…_

"I-I don't know, I just found him, I didn't –"

"Jesus, his pulse! Quick, help us get him in the ambulance! He's gotta go straigh to the hospital!"

…_DON'T. ABANDON… ME._

_DON'T. ABANDON. ME._

_**DON'T ABANDON ME, I'M ALIVE, I'M HERE, YOU KNOW I AM. PLEASE DON'T GO.**_


	9. fear

_**ix.**_

"He is very ill."

The statement took a moment to sink into Baek's head. He furrowed his eyebrows and looked back to the doctor, the words rolling off his tongue slowly. He wondered if he was shaking yet, "Medication will not… relieve it or help it?" A slight shake of the man's head, "Surgery only? And what if he chooses not to?"

"Simple," he remarked, leaning back in the large, black chair, "He will die."

The weight of the information really hit him, then. He glanced to the sickly person beside him, who had not moved and was still staring into the desk. He could not monitor his expression very clearly – his red hair had fallen in the way and obscured his eyes, and he remained as hunched over as he was when they arrived.

The doctor began to prattle on about seeing a surgeon and that he would get the referral letter under way. He took the notes he had written, tucked them away into his folder and waited for the printer before signing what was necessary, sliding it across to Baek and biding them good day. Without a word, the Master and his student left the office and stood halfway between the entrance and their car in the rain.

"I don't want to," he said.

Baek insisted, "You must –"

"No," he replied weakly.

Hwoarang was still in shock. All these doctors and all these tests – they promised him he'd be alright, that it wasn't as serious as it seemed and that medicine could treat it. But finding out that he had no other option other than surgery – and a highly invasive and already dangerous one at that – it felt like someone had him in the stomach. Like he'd been winded, or shot.

He didn't want to admit that he was afraid. No way, no how.

The older Korean was walking in dangerous territory, but he needed to ask, "Are you alright?"

"Fine," he stood straight for the first time today and faked a smile, "I'm always alright."

Baek smiled a little as well and gingerly touched his shoulder, heading closer towards the car with the keys in hand. Hwoarang remained rooted to the spot and watched after him, vaguely noting his Master's reflection in the water in all its distortion. He put his right hand up to his head and clawed at his hair, fingernails digging into his skin. Heavy sienna eyes soon trailed downward until he was staring at his own altered reflection in the puddle at his feet.

His legs shook. His knees buckled. He vomited.

* * *

He couldn't see very well. That's what this thing did, apparently. Affected his sight, amongst other things.

Hwoarang saw spots in his vision. First in the middle, and then they seeped out to one corner and down one side. He felt dizzy again as he looked down at the paper in front of him. He didn't want to admit to his friends or whatever tiny ass family he had left that he was shit scared, but he wanted to at least admit to himself that he was – or at least get it out. He couldn't afford to let this eat him up.

He'd already learnt the hard way that emotions and thoughts were powerful things. One hate-filled night cost him his Father with fast palpitations and blank eyes – he never knew his Mother in the first place. Maybe positive thinking – if he could even worm his way to such a state of mind – could help him with this. It was whacky shit, but he wasn't exactly sane anymore, was he?

_I am dying._

Seeing that in front of him, writing it out – it hurt. Hwoarang forced himself to keep going.

_I am dying, and I am afraid. I have the chance to live with surgery but I'm shit scared. They haven't told me how I'll feel afterward, or if it'll fix it entirely – they say that there's a good chance that they can't get it all and that it'll come back in ten years._

_If it will gonna come back anyway then what's the point of wasting Baek's money? If you assholes can't guarantee me something, then really, what's the point? It's not like I've done anything with my life and it's not like I'm of any merit to anyone, so I should just stop wasting everyone's time already. No one would miss me, right? I dunno. I want to get this done but… I really don't fucking know._

_I'd see my Dad again at least and I could apologise._

Another dizzy spell. _Sitting down, _of all things. Another wave of nausea, too.

Anger had seized him again – one of the many mood swings he'd had over the last few years that this had developed. Gritting his teeth, the Korean stabbed his pen into the paper and dragged it down, harshly pressing the ink into the white until it either soaked through or the paper itself tore. His hand violently trembled as the scribbly mess came out.

**Life. Isn't. Fair.**

* * *

The needle remained rooted in his arm as he woman drew blood. Her platinum blonde hair was lightly distracting because it was just so… _odd. _She smiled as she changed the tubes, "You have good veins, you know? Really strong, healthy veins. I haven't taken blood so easily in a while now! It's a shame that you've had so many tests done though, all of your veins have been tampered with! What do you do? You look like a buff kind of guy."

"Tae Kwon Do," Hwoarang muttered, glaring at the wall.

"Oooh, I should've known!" she winked childishly before redirecting her attention to the stream of red, "What else do you do anyway? Like are you in university or something? What do you major? Ooh wait, do you teach Tae Kwon Do too? Who taught you? Was it someone famous? Reckon he could teach me? Wait nah, don't ask him – I'm horrible with hand-eye coordina –" she fumbled around for a moment, "Whoops, almost dropped the tube!"

University? No. Teacher? No. Life? No. Wasted. _Useless._

There was another click as she changed to another empty test tube, "My friend, Hyoyeon, she did Taekkyeon for a while and said it was hard work. She wanted to keep going but she felt alienated by all the males in the class, sooo she gave up. A shame though, from the demonstrations I saw, she was really good! Sort of like dancing! Do you know anything about Taekkyeon?"

He raised his left hand to his face and covered his eyes, rejecting the light and rejecting himself. He fought hard not to cry, but he just could not help it.

* * *

"What on _earth _are you doing out here?"

It was raining again, and Hwoarang had somehow found his way onto the roof of their home. He was holding a scrap of paper in one hand and a pen in the other, though both of his arms were folded over his knees, which were to his chest. He was gazing out to the darkened horizon, just watching the lights shift and change over the hours.

Baek hissed, pointing to the door, "Get back inside. You need to be healthy for the surgery."

He didn't want to make him angrier than he already was, so without a word, the young man stood and jumped off the roof, landing on his feet with no issue. Rising back to his full height, he wobbled a little – maybe it wasn't such a good idea – and he looked to Baek. Pulling his jacket closer to his body, he looked to the paper in his hand and noted that the writing was bleeding away because of the water.

He crushed it in his hand and threw it beside him, entering the building. It was only when Hwoarang was entirely out of sight did Baek bend over and pick up the paper. He opened it slowly and read what he could make out before crushing it again and putting it back exactly where it was. He wanted to help Hwoarang, but he didn't know how, and the redhead would not open up to him.

_I don't want to die._

_I don't want to die._

_I don't want to die._

_I can't fucking do this._

* * *

"…and we keep cutting it and cutting it and cutting it until it is reduced, or removed if we possibly can. We might have to take the gland out, though, and if we do, you're going to have to be on supplements for the rest of your life," the surgeon pushed his glasses higher up his nose and continued to draw diagrams on the paper before him. He drew an arrow pointing into the sketched head – brain – and licked his dry lips, "There'll be a camera up here to help us out."

Baek continued to ask questions – hospital stay? Recovery time? What should he expect to be different about him? What would this exactly assist? How many checkups would he need? Would more surgery be required after this? How dangerous is it? What could go wrong? What are the chances of such a thing going wrong?

There was a loud thud. Both men turned and found that Hwoarang had passed out.

As the greying fighter quickly rushed to him and watched as he slowly came to, he glanced to the surgeon who shook his head and made a small noise. He glanced at Baek again, who was helping him back onto the chair – the youth's body was shaking and sweating, "He well and truly needs it, and soon."

* * *

Baek was out buying groceries and comfort items for the hospital stay when Hwoarang woke up one day, about a week or so before his scheduled surgery. He had lost a lot of muscle and was particularly weak today as he got out of bed and navigated to the kitchen. He did not, though, expect to find a note on the table with his name on it. Curious, he picked it up and sat down before his knees gave out on him again, or before he fell due to another dizzy spell because of this damn thing.

_You are not doing to die._

_You can do this, because you are not alone, and I am with you._

_I am going to get you better._

_You will live well._

_You will shine brightly._

He did not mean to crush the note, but he did because his hands were shaking so bad. He was biting his lip, and he wondered if it was bleeding. He could not see, but it was not because of the spots that appeared every other day – his eyes were wet and everything was as blurry as fuck. He raised his right hand and placed it on his head, where the problem was, and clawed at his skin again. Hwoarang just wanted to rip it out of there, kick it and tell it to fuck off.

There was a creak and then a clash. He turned in the chair, still in his pyjamas, and saw Baek standing at the entrance with a few plastic bags worth of groceries. Concerned, he approached – but once he noted what was in his hand, he stopped walking and merely smiled a little. He meant every word.

Through the illness, the pain and the emotion, Hwoarang merely smiled back.


	10. light

Author's Note: Wrote this a few weeks ago. It's... I don't know.

* * *

_The scars that won't fade away are always on the heart._

He watches as she delivers the verdict. Goodbye. That's it. After all of these years, that's simply it, but 'we'll always be friends, you've become too important; but this… is too awkward for me now.'

'Just friends' isn't good enough, and it's so unlike him to plead, beg, cry, but Hwoarang's reduced to the most basic of emotions and instincts. He tells her that, and as always, as left-brained as she always has been, she says nothing even as he falls apart in front of her.

"I can't let you go," he says.

Julia remains mute. She just watches him break further in her silence. Somehow, the fact that she seems completely unaffected by her choice and his reaction makes him hurt more. Its more painful than any slap in the face, any kick to the groin, any shout or attack at his selfish pride.

He grabs a fistful of his red hair, "You _made _it awkward," an accusing, but true-in-his-opinion glare follows, "You _made it _awkward because of this! I was fine! I could work through this!"

He's trying to catch the pieces of himself faster than he's able, and he's paralysed in his own sense of failure; and he's saying so many things, things he's not sure if he means, his deepest worries and there is too much fire to hold in.

"It's him? Because he's _smart _and has a few more common interests?"

Nothing.

"After _everything _I've done for you?"

Nothing.

Hwoarang reels in his desire to grab her and shake her by the shoulders as he shouts, "Why aren't you fighting for this?"

Julia merely looks at him. And then he understands.

Because she can't.

He swipes the tears from his eyes and points to the door, "Fine. Go and be free. Leave me to fuckin' rot. I hope you're happy with your damn wings."

Without a word, she slinks from his apartment and closes the door behind her. He stares at the spot she was last in, as though her image remained imprinted in the particles in the air, as though he's trying to find them again. To find the Julia that still loved him and would've fought to keep their many years together, alive, happy.

She couldn't because she wasn't in love with him anymore.

He grabs at his white shirt, his heart, his weak, stupid heart, and tries to calm himself.

Somewhere amongst the remainder of passion's tears, the Korean finds himself curled up on the floor, a hand still at his chest. The ground is cold and unforgiving. The air is bitter and icy. His eyes hurt as he gazes into nothing, and as he ignores the attention-seeking roar of his house phone somewhere in the distance.

_Where are _my _wings?_

* * *

Hwoarang's always known that he's had violent tendencies, but punching a brick wall repeatedly in the days that follow the breakup are doing little to cure his heartbreak, pain and anger. His knuckles are grazed. Blood trails down the back of his hand.

Baek merely observes the closest thing he has to a son crumble from the inside out. There is little else he can do, and he fears that soon, the redhead he knows will be gone forever. He'll be somewhere with the pack of black dogs, unable to resurface. And he worries.

They've sparred several times already. Nothing Baek does or suggests is of any help. He wants to hate Julia for what she has done – to even blame _him_ at one point – but despite everything, she's a good person, no matter how stupidly things have happened.

He can't watch this anymore.

Baek grabs the first aid kit from under his chair and heads over to clean the blood and fix it all up. Because he knows that he can't do much else.

* * *

'_You believe me when I said it wasn't you, right?'_

The phone lays face down on the floor after reading that text message.

He has contacts. People. Friends, who only offer paper-thin condolences and don't offer to hang out to get his mind off of it. Hwoarang has begged Asuka to hang out with him and make him smile again, because his face has become too accustomed to a deep frown. But she can't. Medical school and all that jazz. The thirty minutes she can offer isn't enough.

He has contacts. People. Enemies, who give him anything destructive he needs to feel better, because Howarang is _weak, _and now is the time to ruin him. To end him. To strike him until he can't get back up – or make him do it himself.

"Try it," one says to the martial artist, organising the line on the glass coffee table until it is perfectly straight, "It'll help get your mind off of stupid, hurtful whores."

There is hesitance, because it is wrong. Then there is sheer enthusiasm, because Hwoarang is in need of relief. He wants to stop hurting. He needs to feel.

He leans forward, all the way forward until he's almost curled over it, and then he breathes and all stings, and all is white. He waits. It's not enough. And again and again and again until his eyes water and he starts choking, and he needs a fucking smoke right _now._

Somewhere on the ground, the phone shakes.

'_You believe me when I said I still love you, right?'_

* * *

_Need more gotta have more –_

_- I still hurt –_

_- I still _weep _and _bleed _and _die _because of _you!

A shot. It burns. It's not enough.

_Weeks _of these things, weeks of it not. Being… _Enough_.

He reaches for the bottle and he drinks, and he can barely keep the liquid in his mouth or swallow it. His head pounds as he swallows the painkiller too, because fuck it, why not? He can't cope. He can't take it. He can't manage like this, but at the same time, he can't and doesn't want to break free.

Something in him snaps quite suddenly. Fault, his fault, it is his, no matter what she fucking says, because he's not and never has been good enough for her stupid fucking love. The Korean kicks the table, and when it falls, the glass shatters. Powder flies. Cardboard scatters. Needles roll along the ground and look up at him hauntingly. It catches a glint of sunlight and shines into his eyes.

He runs to the window, the filthy, fucking bright glass window. He pulls the blinds down, he turns off the light switches, he shuts off every damn light until he is drowning in more darkness. And it is still not enough. His efforts are as worthless as he is. As he was to her. As he still is. As he always had been to everyone.

"Haksaeng?"

He glares at the front door and is inwardly glad that he never gave Baek a key, "Fuck off."

There's no response, no sound, nothing but needles and his arm and his anger.

It's. Not. **ENOUGH**.

* * *

_Where did I go? _he wonders.

Lights. He hisses and covers his eyes because light isn't welcome and it was a mistake to have let it in in the first place. He needs to hide in the shadows, where he always belongs. The shadows are _forgiving _and they are like him – _forgotten._

Water. It's cold. He swipes at his eyes because it's annoying and drags his nails down his cheeks thereafter. Light red marks follow the descent. A small sting. It's not enough to distract him. He scratches again. A little better, but it is still not strong enough.

Air. He chokes. It's too clean, much too clean, unfit, bad. Hwoarang brings the cigarette to his mouth and inhales more more more _more more more more more more _fucking toxic smoke until he is _swimming _–

'_You have one new message.'_

Hwoarang runs from the bathroom, from his place in front of the mirror. The shadows encompass him again as his weakening body pushes him into the bedroom, to the landline, to the foreign, invading sound –

"_I'm worried about you –"_

There is silence as he rips the cords from the wall. The ghost, she is gone, and yet she continues to haunt him. He trembles and his eyes hurt, because there's nothing left to cry about. Right?

He will make her regret this. He will _make _her _regret it._

* * *

Voices –

"Shock."

– are –

"Stupid."

– _everywhere._

"No one was worth this…" a soft, deep sigh, "Why didn't you talk to me?"

Lights again lights again _lights and the smell of this place is horrible _–

He sits up, the world is silent again, and he shields his eyes, _no light for me, get it the fuck away from me, it fucking _burns. There's then dizziness, and he makes sure that even as he falls, back into the nothing, back into whatever, that he keeps his goddamn eyes closed. He rubs his nose, and he can feel that it's wet. He wonders.

It's Baek and Asuka, he soon realises, because no one else would talk to him like that or make such a comment, and he just wants them to fucking go away. Julia is worth this to him, but he doesn't know how much, or where the line was crossed anymore; he just wants this to fucking stop.

He keeps his eyes closed and he listens, and Asuka is badgering him all the more about keeping all of this from her. "You're fucking stupid, you know that?" she snits. He can hear her cracking her knuckles, "You're an idiot."

"Fuck off," Hwoarang growls under his breath.

There's silence.

Beautiful.

Silence.

Again.

* * *

"I need it."

Punish, pain, _I can do this to myself you fucking idiots…_

"I _need it!_" he tries to move, but held back by weaklings. What is he, then?

_I can see your face and I can smell your stupid fucking shampoo –_

"_Give it to me!" _ Hwoarang's desperate.

_Please let me fly away._

* * *

Shadows, again, and he doesn't even know where he is.

Somewhere, lost, wandering, hiding from the fucking light, needing the smoke to survive because he doesn't like oxygen anymore. He isn't… _human… _anymore, he doesn't even recognise himself and he just doesn't fucking care because this has gotta fucking stop somewhere.

He wanders away from the hospital, clinic, thing, whatever, dressed as though he's completely and utterly okay, bandages coiling up his forearms and stopping just above his elbows to hide the punctures. His jeans are comfortable, but Hwoarang's not even comfortable in his own skin.

He wanders, and wonders, how she is. What she's doing. If she's found someone. It's been months as far as he knows, but he's not been told how many. Too much distortion. Too much hiding, too much cocaine and needles and too much, too many destructive ways to pull himself apart and make her regret ever leaving him.

His body shakes. Need need need need. Rush.

And then a cup shatters somewhere.

Hwoarang's eyes dart to the source of the sound, and then he swears he's going to break again and just jump head first into this entire destructive cycle again. And again. And again until everything goes back to how it was or until he works out a proper way to cope, one that's not going to be the end of him. Even if he can't stop. Even if he hates and needs.

_Where are _my _wings?_

A soft hand, over his, sobs, "I'm sorry…"

Words –

"I tried to –"

– are –

"- but you wouldn't pick up and when Baek told me I –"

– _Meaningless._

And somewhere in between the dazed wonderland he had forged for himself and for the heaven he wanted to die to get back into, Julia takes him to her apartment and lets him scream, shudder, cry, break until there is nothing left for him, nothing left in him, nothing at all; and she doesn't judge him.

"You did this to me," he croaks.

His eyes fixate on the lamp across the room. It is dim, but not overwhelming. Warm. Welcoming.

Time.

There are apologies and promises to always be friends and to try and help each other. She says she'll help him get out of the cycle that she triggered, and he says nothing. He's comfortable. For the first time in a long time, he is comfortable, no matter how much he hurts.

The light doesn't burn.


	11. smile

_**xi.**_

You kinda like it here in my head, don't you? Up higher off the ground than you'd otherwise normally be because you're such a short little thing.

Yeah well… Get out of there already. Because you're driving me _insane._

You've kinda made this home in my head because you like to torment me day in, day out with all these unreadable signs that I can't possibly distinguish; because one minute, oh yeah, you're _so_ interested, and then the next, you don't give a fuck. But I guess maybe if I started taking horoscopes as 'religiously' as you seem to, maybe it'd make a bit more sense.

…When's your birthday again?

It's hard, trying to do my composition homework, when all I can see and think about is you right now. You've got a really fuckin' infectious smile, y'know that? You light up a whole room just with that one smile. All kinda rooms actually. This room, that room, and the one that's somewhere behind my ribcage that sorta shakes when you look at me.

You're like the sun. You're really bright, happy and full of life. And it shows when you smile. And well, I'm not gonna lie, you make me smile too. A lot, actually. Maybe too much… You make me happier than you probably should. I'm not sure about being able to fly just because of your smile yet, but, you sure do make me happier.

I'd tell you but, I'm piss weak in this area of life. But that's cool, because I make up for it in every other area with confidence and awesomeness.

And here you come now, skipping along, praline chocolate in hand, and you notice me straight away on the concrete ground. You smile again and bolt over to my place on the ground, glaring at the chords I've scribbled in the back of my math book because I'm awesome and forgot my music book. Your shadow looms over my form, and I look up and grin, "Hey."

You raise your spare hand and wiggle your fingers at me in greeting – that's supposed to be a _wave, _is it? – before nudging me with your foot, "Why are you doing your homework out here? Shouldn't you be on the bus home or something, Hwoarang?"

"I would be on the bus home, but as you can see," I point to the bus stop out the front of our school, where masses of other teens wait tiredly, "Its not here yet. So, I'm being a good little boy and catchin' up on some homework before I have to go train with my Master. 'Sides, shouldn't your Grandpa have picked you up already?"

Your eyebrows furrow for a fraction of a second, realising that I'm right, before your eyes widen because you've remembered something. You fish your neon pink flip phone out of your schoolbag before finding a particular text message from your Grandpa. I honestly don't know how you taught him to operate the damn thing at such an age. It was a pain teaching Baek, and he's _younger_, "He said that the car's broken down at home and won't move. Wanna go to the mall or something for a while?"

So I ditch the homework, the bus and the training all in one go, because I don't give two shits about the mall or whatever the fuck else you wanna do in there, but being there makes you happy, and I like seeing you happy, and I like being around you. And as always, you don't disappoint in the entertainment department.

We talk about so much. You're still getting over that fuckhead Kazama. I'm glad you finally saw that you were so unhappy, even if it took six months for that to get there, and for you to get out. Because honestly Xiao… I don't think you realised how much you had changed with him. You're almost normal again.

"I hate you," you jest with a wide smile because of some joke that I don't even remember saying two seconds ago. We're leaning against some wall and watching people walk around, because for you, you like to watch people interact, and for me, I like to watch people's faces and reactions to their environments.

"Sure you do," I counter, resting my forehead against yours for a fraction of a second – for a moment I swear you're responding positively – before stretching my back against the wall. There's a nasty knot near my shoulder and it needs a crack or some shit, "That's why we're hangin' out here at the mall."

There are other little moments like that that continue to confuse me, but I ignore 'em. Shouldn't read into them, I should just focus on… well, the happiness, I guess. We must've wandered around there for hours because by the time you finally get tired and hold your stomach, hungry, we both notice the time. It's like… eight. We've been here since at least half past three, doing nothing.

You really do my head in, kid. I just wonder if I have just a fraction of the effect you have on me. Even now when we go our separate ways, because your Grandpa's worried because you hadn't contacted him, and because Baek's going to make me do so many drills to try and make me 'regret' skipping out on training, I'm still smiling. You make me smile a lot, dammit. I wonder if you even know.

Just keep smiling for me, Xiao. Keep smiling.


	12. myself

_**xii.**_

And I see you there, grinning. But you do not _feel_.

And I feel myself, crumbling. But I deaden completely.

* * *

How do you get stronger?

It's cold in Baek's house. Maybe the windows are open. Maybe the wind is chilly.

"Eat," he says, pushing my bowl of bibimbap closer to me. But it doesn't look that interesting.

It's been a month and a half since I was out of hospital. I was told I may never walk again, that I would never fight again, but I'm managing with crutches, at least. Most of everything else is better. My ribs still hurt from time to time. And yet still none of it interests me. The world and everything in it is boring.

They tell me I was in a motorcycle accident.

I let them believe it, because I know better.

When I look up, Baek's eyes, so wise, show their age. I know he's worried about me. I talk, but not enough. He's told me that I'm like a shadow of myself, an echo of a fire that once burned so brightly. And I understand it, because I do see it.

But he believes in me, that I'll recover completely. That I'll walk with no limp and fight as I once did. And maybe I will. It's something I want to work towards, but not something that I can... _do _right now. Because there is something else that has taken my mind, and it makes me obsess over every little detail.

I want to ask Baek for his advice, but he doesn't know the truth. And I can't let him know the truth.

He sighs and stands to leave, running his fingers through greying hair. I stare at where he had been and with a shaking hand, pick up my utensils. They feel foreign in my hands.

He gingerly places a hand on my shoulder, his fingertips rustling the fabric of my shirt. Without meaning to, I flinch away from the attempted comfort, and then feel an inkling of annoyance at my own body. Baek is my master, like a father to me, and because of what really happened, I can't even let him _touch_ me without... without... being so fucking weak.

_You_ did this to me.

* * *

I had always thought that I was the strongest, and that day, I proved it. At least, I thought.

Your face still haunts me in my sleep. The memory of your fists, claws, fangs, it feels like they remain. I know there will be scars, an imprint of a foolish thought. The memory of fire and a laughter I never want to hear again force me into an awakened state. I never yell, but just remembering is enough to send tremors down my spine. Not because I am afraid, or hurt, but because I'm just so _mad._

You once told me you thought we could be friends. I laughed, but I still agreed, even as bullets sunk into the car we hid behind.

There's a part of me that wants to understand what happened, but I know I never will.

Maybe it's because of my refusal to let sleeping dogs lie that I am like this. Or maybe it's because I trusted you, even as my rival, to do the right thing. Because you were always a goody two shoes, or else you wouldn't have walked into my makeshift, dirty ring all those years ago when you worked out what I was doing.

Maybe it's because I don't even have a _basic_ understanding, and that pisses me off.

On the bedside table, I see my cigarettes and my lighter. Untouched because of a new fear of fire and its memory. They're soon swept into the bin.

I don't think I'll ever smoke again.

You once told me that you'd never truly hurt me, because you're stronger than that. You tell me it was because you don't feel, that you only think like a machine. I didn't understand, but now I do. And I guess, in that sense, _I am_ stronger than you, in a battle of wills. But my God – how do I... How...

Somewhere in my thoughts, I've been led to Baek's study. My gaze is on a paranormal book.

I don't know what you are, but I want to understand. Maybe I want to help.

Maybe I can fix it. And things can be as they were.

So I reach.

* * *

How do you move past betrayal?

Because, really, that's what happened.

I don't believe you when you say you're like a machine.

Baek doesn't ask why I've been reading so much upon the supernatural, but he instead buys some more and leaves them by my bed. But then he grabs my biceps and pulls me up from my bed, and I shudder at the touch, because it reminds me of worse things. Books fall to the floor as I'm dragged upward.

"I don't know what you are obsessing over," he begins, "But you are getting out of this bed."

Before I know what's happening, he's thrust me forward into the open room. I fumble in the air, for crutches that aren't there, and instead find that I'm standing on my own. When I look back, the corner of his lip cocks up into a tiny smile before vanishing again. His hands twitch and he takes a long step back, until his legs hit the bedside table, "Move."

And I walk. One, two, three. It hurts, but then I'm at the door. A breath rushes out, one I didn't know I'd been holding. But that's it. It doesn't thrill me.

"If you can walk, you can fight," he says next, and he sounds a little more chipper. He is soon close by, and it feels as though his eyes are trailing over my body, seeing how thin I've become, and seeing if I can support my own weight. Or maybe he is looking for light in the shadow, "You just need a little while longer."

A stiff nod. And then, my mouth moves of its own accord. I don't look over my shoulder at him, and instead find the flickering gleam of the television in the other room to be a good anchor, "Can we go out to eat tonight?"

It sounds so weak and feeble that I almost regret letting myself be pulled out of the bed, letting myself move and letting myself speak.

Instead, he reaches for me again, and I pull my shoulders inward, "Don't."

"We can go out to eat," Baek replies curtly, moving past me, "If you are able to walk the whole way."

And I do. And it hurts, like breathing, like trying to solve this puzzle.

He's taken me to some American diner. The burgers are greasier than normal. There is a younger man in the booth behind us that critiques the cooking skills down to the finest detail, and the young woman he is with laughs softly and tells him to quieten down.

"What really happened?" Baek finally inquires, staring down his food like it's the person who's changed me.

"I can't say."

"Why?"

I swallow and breathe, "Because then you'll be next."

Somewhere in the distance, it feels as though something shifts and calms. Somewhere in my memories, there's your raspy voice threatening me again, and then that laugh that I still can't seem to shake. Inside of me, that feeling of betrayal sinks deeper into me, until I can't bear to eat.

Maybe I don't want to understand to help. Maybe I can't fix it. Maybe things will never be as they once were. Maybe I want to understand to hurt back.

And for the first time in many weeks, my blood _stirs_.

* * *

Julia tells me about genetics.

We talk on the phone sometimes, and she talks about her work. She works in genetics.

She tells me that she and her team have found something interesting recently, like a mutation of the soul. She describes so much that it feels like her words are painting pictures in my head. And they look exactly like you. They even begin to move. Speak. I can _smell_ the ash, and the petrol.

I can't get out 'stop', or that 'I have to go'. The memories keep me there, of you with fangs, and glowing eyes, and strange marks on your body. Of claws, of wings – of blood and fire and rage. Of betrayal and disloyalty to the morals you told me you held so dear.

The next thing that falls from her mouth is about stars and monsters, the worries of her tribe. Things that I feel like I should listen to, but I'm unable to absorb all of it, because all I can see is someone who respected me enough, and yet couldn't find the strength to bring in whatever the fuck you were. Maybe you really are a fucking machine.

She goes, then, because her Mother is ill and she needs to look after her.

The next day, there are reports of bombs in Busan, and your face all over the television.

I can't handle it then, and I only just make the dash to the sink to empty my stomach of my small breakfast.

Baek seems to understand then as I sink to the ground, sobbing a little. He is behind me, bending down and rubbing my back like I'm a child. I don't flinch away. I don't even twitch. I can cope. I can. _I can..._

"I will make you strong again," he hisses, full of a parental determination that I've not heard in so long. He pulls me up by an arm, turns me around so that I face him, and holds onto my shoulders as though they're what's keeping him alive, "I will make you so strong that even _memories_ will cower in fear. You are _my boy_, and there is _nothing_ that can ever take away who you are. _Nothing!_"

My blood stirs again, and the corner of my mouth, slightly damp with the remnants of a few tears, lifts into a strong smirk.

* * *

How do you clear obstacles?

I can fight again.

Baek tells me I am a warrior. I let myself believe it.

My strength is not there, but my speed, dexterity and ability remain. They're rusty, but functional, and fixable. But we both know that my strength will return in time. I'll recover. Those stupid fucking doctors were wrong. So were whatever negative thoughts I had. I'm better than this. Hell, I'm better than I give myself credit for.

"You should rest now," he remarks as the bag swings to a stop; and I follow him out towards the kitchen, where the radio plays. And the radio tells me of you, and how you are almost in complete control of the world.

Why? How?

Wasn't enough to betray me, Kazama?

It wasn't enough to nearly kill me and leave me by the roadside? It wasn't enough to make me think that we were the friends you once claimed we could be?

Baek's stopped buying me books. Julia's stopped calling. But I think I have enough to put some pieces together.

Soon enough, I'm in my room, writing down everything I remember, and everything I've learnt. And as the pen moves, it becomes clear to me that maybe I've known all along. Maybe I knew back when your technique became sloppy when you weren't a picture perfect, emotionless bastard – a machine, as you once said. Maybe I just didn't really understand. Maybe I didn't want to.

Satan's Servant, the books said.

Devil Gene, Julia said.

You are sick. Literally sick. Mutated. Inhuman, a _monster._

And I thought I knew you. A son of comfort. Moral-loving. Logical, and powerful. _My challenge._

I don't know all that much, but I know enough to say that I at least understand you more. Why you were always so closed up, unemotional... selfish, even. Keeping to yourself, even when I would chase after you to try and repair my frayed pride. Hiding in the dark, even when someone who claimed to love you would extend a hand to try and help.

Maybe I can still fix this. Maybe the way to do it is to hurt you, and heal myself. Maybe things will be a remnant of what they once were, of this... rivalry, this dysfunctional friendship that we've somehow made.

Maybe I don't need to. Maybe I can cope with this shadow that follows me. The darkness, the... _hate_ that still eats away at me inside for what you have done to me.

I don't want to hate... I don't want to be like you.

* * *

"King Of Iron Fist Six," Baek places the flyer in my hands delicately, remembering not to allow our skin to touch.

He still can't really touch me - only very rarely will my skin not crawl. I can't deal with being in crowds, because I don't want to be touched. It reminds me too much of that whole 'nearly being killed by a friend' thing. Maybe that's who I am now from now on – the new Hwoarang.

"Will you join me?"

"You're going?" I splutter, "In this war?"

"One last time," he replies softly, turning away to make some tea for himself, "Who knows, perhaps we can find people to fight against it. Maybe we can make a Resistance, or join one. They say that one of Jin's units is defecting, under the shadows. They follow only their Captain."

He can feel my self-doubt.

"You are strong, Hwoarang," he states, and for a moment, I almost believe him, "You are strong because you will not lie down. You are strong because your soul is unyielding, and unbreakable. You are strong because _you feel._ You are strong because I made you so. Whatever you choose to do, you will do great things. Do not let an event, or someone shut you down and put out your fire. Never again. Nobody is worth that time."

I sigh, but I nod a little, "I'll join you."

Maybe I can find answers if I go. Get stronger.

I want to fight, but I don't know what for yet.

"I'll join, for you," I suddenly clarify, rounding my shoulders back and leaning across the counter, "And only for you."

Baek smiles at me as he raises the mug of steaming tea to his lips. It is broad, wide, and then, and only then, do I believe his words, for however briefly.

I am strong. I am a warrior. And no matter what happens or who betrays me, I can fight my way out of the darkness. I will _fight_ my way out.

* * *

How can you cope with demons?

Qualifiers were easy. There's around forty who made it through, Baek included. But he's off elsewhere now, with some friends he has not seen in a while. And I am alone.

Though, not for long, as a dark figure enters the quiet room. There are books everywhere, and I'm reading one of them. Reading seems to help a little, even if I am not looking for answers on you and that Devil Gene. Baek and I have seriously tossed up the idea of a Resistance, but we're still not sure. In the very least, we know _who_ is tearing you down from the inside out.

I've seen this guy here before, in the previous tournament, when I was the old Hwoarang. White skin, marred face, and eyes, so cold. He is a military man of some kind, and he takes up a seat next to me, papers in hand. He starts to read over them, like it's some kind of report. He's silent. I can barely hear him breathing.

"Dragunov, right?" I suddenly say. He nods, and then despite myself, I ask, "Why don't you ever talk?"

He looks up, face blank and bearing into the air. Then after what appears to be careful consideration, he pulls out a pen and a small notepad, writes in it, and passes it to me. My eyes widen a little, _'I am mute.'_

"What, born that way or?"

For some reason I take comfort in finding that I'm still rude. That an old part of me never died.

He takes the book back and gestures to a scar on the side of his throat. He then writes again and shows me the notepad, _'You were a soldier once. You should know that is a bullet scar. I was shot during an operation, purposely by my own rat of a partner. My voice never returned.'_

"That... That sucks," I murmur, breathe, and fold into myself.

Does this world only ever know betrayal?

The notepad is suddenly in my field of vision again, _'You do not burn like you once did. Why?'_

I stop and swallow a little, "I guess you could say I was betrayed by a partner too." Nearly killed, really, by someone who has – had? – my utmost respect, and visa versa. My challenge, my own, and you and your crazy, demonic self just couldn't help but rip me down. Betray me. You almost _ruined_ me. _You almost ruined me,_ and what I thought of myself.

I don't even realise that I'm trembling, nor that my teeth are clenching together. Dragunov passes me the notebook again, and in the messy English text, he says to me, '_If someone hurt me half as bad as someone has hurt you, I would not give them the time of day.'_

The air leaves my lungs. Something in my head snaps.

I voice what I never thought I'd be able to, "How do you... move past betrayal?"

Dragunov pauses for many moments before writing down his response. He takes its time. It seems lengthy, but when he passes me the notebook to read, it isn't. Instead, it is a truth I could never find, that I could not face, and yet as dark as it is, I feel brighter.

'_Some people have the ability to forgive and move on, like everything is normal. Some people have the ability to cope through the darkness of their heart. And some people, Hwoarang, do not – not because they didn't try, but because they are unable to. I did not forgive. I did not forget. And I will not.'_

It makes sense, then. I can't fix it. I can't put things as they were.

Things won't ever be the same, for the pain is too great.

I _cannot_ move past, and I _cannot_ get through the darkness. But I can make my own light brighter, I can fight that way and go through that tunnel. Until I can feel for real again, properly and true. I'm not going to stay here and become _lost,_ like you. I'm better than that.

I am _better_ than that.

"Thank you," I breathe, putting the book down and standing. I return his notebook, give a rough salute, which Dragunov returns, and then leave.

When Baek finds me in our hotel room, he says nothing, but he does regard me carefully. Instead, I reach for him and hug him tightly, as though he's my Father. And he might as well be. The contact still has my skin crawl, but I will ignore it, because he holds me back as though I'm precious and of worth.

My declaration rings strong through my heart as I pull back and look to him with a familiar smirk, "_Nothing_ is worth losing myself over."

And do I fucking believe it.

* * *

And I see you there, guilty. But you do not _yield_.

And I feel myself, alive. But I will never be _numb_ again.


	13. sunlight

Author's Note: Sequel to #10.

**xiii.  
**

Your words – just the words, no longer the voice – still bounce around in my mind from time to time. About you, about me, about us. About how you just couldn't fight for something that was once genuine.

I don't know how long it's been since I stopped myself from taking those measly steps towards your door, everyday as I had done even months after things... fell apart. I don't remember how long it's been since someone told me that I was only hurting myself more in the end, or how many times I thought about a fucking needle, even after I... conquered the dependency.

Since then I've remembered how to love myself. Because no one else could.

There are definitely times I think about you, always. I mean, I loved you, right? It's natural to think about you. But as I see you there, standing on the opposite end of the train, I realise that it's not in the ways that I used to anymore.

I see you, with your hair tied back. Your red glasses are still perched on your tiny nose. You're looking down at a book in your hand. Your nails are long and a chipped, bright red, like your insides. You don't see me through the crowd. I am a ghost, tethered to the ground by memories of your arms and heroin; of your tender touch and cocaine.

Once, a long time ago, you were something beautiful. To the world, to me. Great, sweeping grey wings that could carry any burden, with the stars in your eyes and the will and brains to go wherever you wanted. To achieve what you insisted you'd been put on this earth for. To be something wonderful.

And I was so lucky, so fortunate to be able to hold you in my pale, repulsive fingers. That you'd grace my palms with your soft lips and remind me that life is _good_. That I don't need to remember how bad things could be, how much life could hurt, because the present was good and the future looked to be as well. That maybe, just maybe, I could make myself into something. Something just a fraction as wonderful as you are.

As you were.

Isn't funny how time changes perceptions?

Once, a long time ago, you were something beautiful. To the world, to me. But to me... Now you are _ugly_ and _raw_. Stars burn out, _dear_. Your face is gaunt. Your breath smells like ash. Your fingers are withered, stripped of their warmth, now as cold as the bones that hide there. Your posture is as horrible as mine now, despite fighting tooth and nail to make sure it was _picture fucking perfect._ The result of your deed shows inside and out.

And your wings. Your damn wings. The wings I fucking _fell_ for to make sure you got, in the end... _Where are_ your wings, Julia?

You make me fucking sick.

I would've taken a bullet for you. I told you almost every day. You heard it every time I mentioned the street gangs, the fights, the army. You'd smile and nod. But you never, not _once_ said anything remotely similar. Maybe I should've seen it then, that I was just... _nothing._ Or that you saw yourself as something more important, even as words of love spilled from your stupid fucking lips. I would've torn the world _apart_ for you. And you couldn't even offer me the same.

The person I would've taken a bullet for was behind the trigger, in the end.

I ended up in hospital because of you. It's something I unfortunately still remember and feel in my bones. The helplessness and the heartbreak, and the way that the future suddenly felt like it would hurt me like you did. _You_ did that to me. Out of sight, out of mind. Off my face. Stabbing my arms and stuffing white powder up my nose until I couldn't _feel_ anymore, until I couldn't _hear_ you or see you or smell you. Until you were finally fucking gone, if only for a little while. Hiding from the light.

You expressed such guilt. I remember that you cried, but you know what?

I wish you fucking cried _more._

I never needed you anyway, Julia. And now I believe it. I've bettered myself while you wasted away, while you kept your face inside of books that never took you anywhere. While you did things that never really made that much of a difference in the end, did it? You haven't moved in life at all. Literally at all. Not an inch since the first year or so of our relationship. And it makes me wonder if you would've moved further at all if you hadn't of cleaved me in two.

When I think about that time, I can't remember a damn thing. I don't remember how your face lights up and how your eyes shine. I don't remember the way we would laugh. I don't remember the way I would try and teach you Korean because you'd ask, or how you would read something scientific to me because I wanted to understand what you loved. I don't. _I don't._

It's a giant, gaping black hole. A blank, where I can only pick out the worst of things. About how you manipulated everyone around you, most of all me. And how you didn't even know that you _did_, and yet I am the expert in exploitation and I still fucking fell for it. About how you'd swear that you loved me, and then you'd declare that the way to get through life is to look out for yourself and _only_ yourself.

I'll give you one thing, Julia. You were right about that.

But you sure as hell picked the wrong time to remind me about how cruel the world really was. Illness and war. About how fucking _horrific_ people could really be. And you sure as hell showed me that you never cared as much as you proclaimed, picking the one time _I needed you_, and you still just... let it fall away. Just to get your damn wings.

When I think about you, I don't think about how sweet you sounded when I made you laugh. I don't think about how much you hurt me when you tore open my chest, ripped out my bitter heart and sucked all of the warmth from it. No. I think about what you are doing right now. I think about where you are in life and how you haven't crawled forward.

I think about you in your apartment, drinking your coffee – with two sugars – and the despair you feel over the research papers that gave you so much trouble. I think about how mundane your life is, whereas I'm travelling, moving, _doing_ and _living_ and _breathing_. I think about how you are stuck in a place in time, thinking about me while I take on the world and bend it to my will.

I'd like to imagine that you are as miserable as I am.

But I know you're not. I know it now, when you look at your phone. It's in your eyes. It's the way they used to shine when you'd see I had called. But there's excitement smeared across your wretched face, excitement that you never used to have for me. You take a picture of yourself and send it off to whoever the man is. I don't know if it's Steve and I really don't care anymore. Because _I don't need you._

I don't need you at all, and I never did.

I have become smarter and stronger. I bettered myself.

I have stitched and cleaned the wounds that you left. My battle scars.

When your eyes finally lift up because it's your train stop, my stop, our stop... You freeze. You don't even breathe. Your eyes falter, and it feels so good, in the _worst_ kind of way, to see that. I stare without wanting to fall into myself, without wanting to stuff pills down my throat to hide from the memory of your destruction. To cower in fear because of the particles that still follow me silently and remind me that once, I was vulnerable.

That once, you destroyed me.

The urge to bare my teeth is almost overwhelming, but I hold it down. I won't rip you apart like the lamb you always were, like the bad person that your Mother insisted that I was. And you wouldn't taste beautiful as you once did. You would taste rotten. You don't bleed. You leak poison. And you don't even know it.

I am the _wolf_, Julia. I always have been. And I always will be.

I have grieved until I had forgotten what it was like to be _happy_.

I have fought _addiction_ and I _won._

The train pulls to a stop. It creaks and squeaks until it has no voice left. Time still feels slow, so very slow as my mind continues to engulf me. It feels like I saw you there a month ago, even though it was something like five minutes. A lot to feel in five minutes... A lot to remember in five minutes.

We stand in the carriage, just watching each other, wondering who will say what or if anybody will move. You're holding onto the handles above you. I am leaning against the wall. But I am _astute_ and _proud._ You are _asinine_ and _pathetic._ In my eyes, you are. In my eyes, even when I think back, you now always have been.

The people around us file out and begin to descend down the stairs on the platform that we're supposed to move onto. The sunlight filters in from the open doors. It warms me. It falls over my face and my arms, inspiring me to tilt my chin forward just the slightest bit. It doesn't burn. It excludes you. The shadows swallow you whole, and it makes you look down.

There's silence.

Beautiful.

Silence.

Again.

My smile shines on with or without you, Julia, like the sun that accepts me and denies _you._ Like life. I found my happiness, and it was with _myself._ Even if I try and focus on that giant, gaping black hole, I can't find a single piece of light. You snuffed it out the day you said it was awkward, it's just it took a while to reach me, like a star going out in a system. Like your eyes, dull and no longer alive. There's just nothing. Or maybe the light was never there.

And I am left with this _filthy_ fucking memory of a girl who abandoned me when I needed her the most.

Sure, I am lonely. I can see that question dancing behind your eyes as you clutch your phone and book tighter to your beaten up, old denim jacket. You take a single, delicate step towards me and then think better of coming closer. Maybe you realise that I am the wolf. But as my nostrils flare and I gnash my teeth to combat a sudden desire to speak, I remember the vulnerability, and how I swore, _how I swore_ on that day I walked away from your door... that I would never _ever_ feel it again. That I'd be numb to it.

Even if my bitter heart _freezes._

But there's one thing that I still know, Julia. Even if my bitter heart freezes. Even if ice surrounds the outside of it, as it beats within a glass confinement, hidden from the world in my pale, repulsive fingers. Even if you become an even bigger black hole, to the point where I forget not only the details, but the bigger picture.

There's one thing that you never took away from me.

You murmur my name as I turn into the sunlight and take the first step onto the platform. It sounds wrong on your tongue, and I almost want to rip it out of your throat. As I take the steps away from you that I took months ago, when I remembered how to love myself and when I chose to better myself, I affirm that I am better off without you. And I remember that I will always be who I am, warm, strong.

It's always summer in my heart and in my soul.


End file.
